Dream with No Name Contemporary Fiction from Cuba

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Chapter One

13TH PARALLEL SOUTH

Angel Santiesteban Prats

Translated by James Graham

               On the horizon behind us only the black smoke coughed out by the trucks was visible. The plane had taken off and we had to go back for a mop-up action. In the middle of our rushing around and the fear, we were able to rescue a man who'd been shot. Trying to fix the radio proved useless; we'd lost touch with headquarters, the operator said. There were eight of us left, and the company captain who'd decided at the last moment to join us on the mission had to be sorry now. So he ordered us to start marching, to try to rejoin our unit.

    Medina, who catches up to me dragging his bloody foot, passes me a cigarette; I take a drag and it goes around, mouth to mouth, until the heat burns our lips. Suddenly it hits me that Argüelles, the violinist, has missed his turn; but he doesn't say a word. His only interest is his violin, which he carries under the arm that bleeds where he got shot. I remember we were in front of the trucks when we heard the roar of the plane. We jumped under the bushes without thinking about anything other than saving our skins, leaving behind everything except our firearms. I pressed my AK against my chest. The others put theirs on top of their heads while they chewed on their dog tags. I didn't do that because I'm sure they're not going to send me out of here in a bag; before heading out my old lady gave me this little amulet to hang on my gun; at first I didn't want to carry it on account of the comments and the ridicule, but seeing that it's light and pretty small, I talked myself into it. And I still have it. But Argüelles held on to his violin like a chickenshit, while his AK hung from his back and got in the way. At times I feel bad for him because I think he's screwed up in the head. When he joined our unit, some of the guys weren't happy about it; they thought he was a spoiled brat. Nobody says a word to him and I don't think he cares.

    The moon sneaks up on us as we march. We make camp by the thinnest thread of water, sharing the last canned goods that Crespo was able to save in his knapsack. Pretty soon we can smell the food and our mouths are watering. Nobody makes a sound while we read the labels on the cans. Finally, the captain gives the signal and we come for our portions. The violinist does just the opposite. He starts walking and disappears, coughing like a white shadow among the trees. Nobody does anything about him. We stay there, hypnotized by the smell of the food. Then, carried by the breeze, a beautiful and sad music comes from some faraway place; at first it's faint and distant, but it slowly grows more intense. We look at each other without knowing what's going on. We suddenly stop eating, stop moving around, and look up toward the dome of immense darkness that covers us and makes us pray for dawn so we'll know that all this was only a nightmare.

    We sit frozen like that for seconds, until Eladio complains that he doesn't understand why they let such a strange guy come along on a mission like this. But everybody calls Eladio the Hardass, and we all generally keep quiet while he's talking. The cook says that the violinist eats only proper food and with a napkin, that's why he doesn't touch this food and why he looks the way he does: jaundiced, and so skinny--just glasses and a violin. Everybody laughs and I say he was the same at camp. I always noticed him, that's just the way he is. Somebody else interrupts because the wounded guy doesn't want to try the food, he's got a fever and he's babbling about how we ought to get ready for the airplanes. All of us are standing around the stretcher when we see the violinist come back, the violin on his shoulder. He sits down in exactly the same spot as before, like always, without saying a word. It seems like he never moved in the first place.

    In the morning we decide to keep going without knowing exactly where, to look for a small village. We're not sure what we prefer, where we'll be in less danger, to be right here lost in the forest--keeping an eye out for the cobras so they won't bite through our boots and our pants while we try to sleep--or to chance on the hospitality of some small village full of enemy troops, spying on us with bullets and knives at the ready. We keep marching, using up our last reserves of strength. Exhaustion enters through our pores, in our breathing, in every thought. It's always the same fatigue, which they didn't hand out in Cuba when we left, nor during the whole trip getting here. It hit us, pure and simple, when we disembarked in this land of black magic; it jumped inside of us like a virus, and there's always a little more in every pocket for the tough spots. Our steps are getting shorter and shakier. The trees let go of the last leaves of the season, the broken branches rustle in the wind and we seem like a walking joke. This is a labyrinth where the most cautious of soldiers leaves a trail of crumbs so he can find his way back; and if truth be told, if they gave me half a chance, I wouldn't stop until I threw myself down in bed with the old lady, begging her to ground me like she used to and not let me go out to play war with my pals from the neighborhood, since these aren't kid's games but the mad fantasies of adults. I'm never going to buy pistols or shotguns for my kids. I look back searching for a landmark and all I see are bullet shells and rusty cans with every bit of food scraped away. When all is said and done, it's all the same to me. Them or us, we're nothing more than little fleas trying to kill a monster. We are the ones who've brought about all these disasters.

    We go on for several hours without seeing a single human being. No sign of life, not the least whiff of civilization. I catch a nasty smell from Medina's leg, which has already turned blue; he's been dragging it along the road like a madman, tracing a line behind us just like a slug, bringing out all the disgust, grief, and laughter I try to keep to myself. I look back and see a few stragglers. Maybe I turn my head back too violently; I feel nauseous and start to lose my balance; I'm about to fall. Just then the music that before seemed to come out of nowhere springs magically from Argüelles's violin, and I come to a stop. I'm panting and starting to sweat from fatigue. Crespo shoots us a glance--as if this were the time for a little tune! But things are coming unstuck in a weird way, our feet that have marched and marched since who knows when feel light and a little shaky, the hairs on my balls are standing up, my thighs rubbing together excites me, and on top of all that, the rest of my body is getting looser. Once again we pull together. No one has looked at anyone else and no one's said a thing. We keep marching because that's the order: march until we get somewhere ...

    We all see it, but nobody points to it, afraid it might be an hallucination. We're still unsure as we come close to the window ledge. The wood has been eaten away by termites. On the captain's orders, we surround the place while he moves toward the only door and calls out. A double-barreled shotgun points at his head in response. My first thought is, we're screwed again. I get ready to shoot a few rounds and put my two last cartridges close by. The captain comes back and pulls us together, saying it's a half-mad Portuguese family. They can help us with some food, bread, water, and the hut in the back. They have no medicine to spare, even though one of our men is dying. He will loan us a Negro who can apply compresses of straw and mud. "And may it be as God wishes," I say in a loud voice, but everyone ignores me. I remember that I'm a revolutionary and that revolutionaries don't believe in God. So I spit at the sky and surprise myself by making the sign of the cross. "He'll give us everything on the condition that we leave as soon as possible, because they don't want problems with the UNITA troops," says the captain.

    The commander's uniform makes me think of a wrinkled and empty beer can. I want to let someone else in on the joke, but everyone is looking at the violinist, who's moved away from us to watch a flock of white birds heading north. Eladio jabs me with his elbow, saying this is what is unforgivable: he finds any crap more interesting than all of us. And Argüelles stays put, the sharp points of his knees sticking into the ground, his eyes fixed on the spot where the birds disappeared. He's waiting for them. But empty sky is all that's left.

    We're standing in the shade under a window, talking about our last words when we left Cuba; guessing at what moment the woman left behind will cheat on each of us, something that will befall most every guy. Jailbirds are always brooding about amnesty. We think about a peace treaty that lets us go home. Argüelles is coughing when he comes back and breaks up our chatter. He squats down on the ground and all of us shift on the wooden boxes, leaving him an empty spot; he's got his eyes closed now just like a cat, which is only so he doesn't have to thank us. Medina whistles a melody, I guess, so he can forget the pain in his leg a little bit. We look over at Argüelles, waiting for his reaction. But he never changes. We're up again, leaving the spot where the boxes are for him. I can see from Eladio's expression that he'd like to spit on Argüelles, whose skin is already as cracked and transparent as the desert.

    We throw ourselves down in the barn. Crespo starts cooking outside, doing what he can to make what we'll call lunch. Suddenly we hear music that eats us alive, taking us over slowly, covering everything with a caress we can almost touch. Sweat wets our eyes, a few of us get a bit sentimental because of the music. Nobody moves at all, our eyes are shut tight while we watch the dreams charge by. And why we don't know, but in spite of everything we're smiling.

    Now the Portuguese yells for the captain and invites him inside, but he refuses to go in and stands in the doorway talking. They talk until the Portuguese, pissed off, goes back in the house. The captain keeps his eye on us, passes his hand through his mustache. He comes toward us and stands there looking at the violin in Argüelles's arms. He tries to ease off, but seeing the Portuguese's stare bearing down on him from the window stops him. He looks at Medina's blue leg that's no longer a leg and at Luis's bloody bandages. Then the captain tells Argüelles that the Portuguese will exchange the violin for the medicines we need to clean the two men's infections and his arm; five cans of meat; two bottles of homemade brandy; and cigarettes. The entire unit draws up around him, carving every part of his filthy body up with our eyes. The violinist backs off and we stare at him again. The captain says he feels sorry about it because he knows what the violin means to him; but it's a tough situation, and he's got to understand. Silence is the worst response Argüelles can give. The boss keeps pressing at him until he manages to pick him up, dropping him right in front of those of us who are backing up the captain.

    "Would you give up your rifle in exchange?" Argüelles asks him. At first, the chief wavers. "No, I couldn't do it, it's the one thing I've got to show for my life, the guarantee I'll get back alive."

    The violinist smiles. "I suppose every one of you feels that way," he says, and he shoots us the once-over. "I prefer to give up my rifle." But the chief won't let him. "You're being difficult." The violinist stares at the ground, his eyes brimming with tears behind his glasses, while he squeezes the violin. "No," he says, "No."

    Everyone is stock still. We keep staring at him as if he hadn't said a word. He looks at Luis's bandages, with their first layer of bloodstains and a greenish liquid on top of that. He stares at the mosquitoes that appeared on Medina's leg when he began shaking from the fever. He sees the vultures flying in the same spot where the birds from the North were earlier. In a trembling voice he asks, "Is that an order?" and the captain nods. But he can't make up his mind. He drops the violin on the ground, and saying "Shit," turns his back on us and walks away.

    He stays away from then on. Four days have passed and he hasn't tried the canned meat or the brandy. He doesn't look at us. If he did we know it would be with hate, and for our part we don't want him with us. The boss has decided to keep going. And so we leave the settlement, dragging our butts through this sterile landscape. Soon enough the house is out of sight, but someone is always looking back, with regret. The violinist follows us like a dog. His being there bothers us. Too bad he doesn't get lost. We wouldn't lose any time looking for him; what's the point of a man being here if he won't talk about where he's from or the people he left behind, if he won't tell a few lies?

    We've already covered a few miles and we decide to take a break. Maybe with the violin we'd have walked a little farther. Everybody is quiet. One guy spits and somebody else kicks a rock. He's still standing off, not saying a word. He points the finger at us with his presence, his silence. People are saying that to keep on without provisions is suicide. We give him a look that begs for support, but he keeps ignoring us. We've got three wounded men. There's only one sacred order here: survive. Now he's got his back turned. "War is war," somebody else says. The captain talks about principles, nobody pays attention. In turn, he is reminded that desperation can be measured by degrees. We know that at times, with the bullets flying at us, we forget why we're killing. Because they're wearing a different uniform, who knows? Some guys just want to find a canteen with a shot of rum, others are looking for a skin mag or maybe only a comic book…. The boss asks us if everyone agrees we ought to go back. We're standing with our AKs loaded, waiting for Argüelles, who should be catching up, but he just sits there. He's written "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL" in the mud with the barrel of his gun. Eladio screams at him, "For shit's sake!" and we head back. Nobody pays attention to orders, not even the captain. We're not in file or spread out: not a platoon or even soldiers. We've torn off our stripes and insignias. We're just a gang of desperate men who barge into the house, take the Portuguese by surprise, push him around, and separate him from his shotgun. The Negro tries to stop us, yelling that Angolan comrades are tired of helping out Cuban comrades. A split second after he moves, I give him a poke with the butt of the gun that leaves him sprawled out on the floor. We prowl through the kitchen, the storeroom, the little girl's bedroom, and we find the violin.

When we get back, Argüelles is still making strokes in the mud with the barrel of the gun. It's a strange picture, one not from here or from back home. He keeps drawing without paying any attention to us. So the captain bellows, "Attention!" and gives him a shove, the rifle falling over into the mud. The captain shouts at him that we're tired of putting up with his attitude, his lack of consideration, his laziness, and his being pissed off at his mates. That he could cite him for disobeying the rules and even shoot him as a deserter. But he'll dismiss all the charges because he's completely incompetent. The captain says he's going to confiscate his rifle and Argüelles can go screw himself; now he'll have to shoot with his shitty violin. And the boss throws it down in the mud, spits on it, and leaves. Argüelles gives us a suspicious look, he crouches there staring at us and he wavers, and then picks up the violin without taking his eyes off us and wipes it clean with his shirtsleeve. And he walks away, leaving us stranded here, hating him.

Excerpt

AN UNEXPECTED INTERLUDE BETWEEN TWO CHARACTERS

Jacqueline Herranz Brooks

Translated by Clara Marín

-- Thank you, Ezequiel.

                 Asmania, who is called Asmania here because of that Pailock novel, amuses me, is completely drugged, and has left her friends. As she moves forward, the sky and everything around her turn leaden. Drugged, at the end of the afternoon, Asmania walks through an alley that leads to a bus stop. While her friends are still partying, Asmania makes out two meaningful outlines: a dark-skinned girl and a movable food stand. The girl, on her left. The stand, in front. Asmania picks the latter and tries to find change in the bag that hangs, zigzagging, from one of her shoulders. Asmania is drugged and her drugged gaze sways, examining the change. Examining sometimes the change, sometimes the girl. She's not cold, and the "coolest one" is the girl that says: "Me, I'll go after the man in the shirt with the orange stripes." Asmania has found the change, and now she's counting it; she is thankful, and crosses over to the stand, but not without first looking at the man with the now-drab shirt, since the stripes can hardly be made out in the darkness of the night.

    It's night, and the man at the stand is packing up the merchandise: potato-filled potatoes, fried food in bread, and tamales--everything cold and probably dotted with flies, which the owner of the movable food stand doesn't mind shooing. In front of the stand, Asmania again counts her change, and buys one of everything, twice. She pays, crosses the street, and as she crosses, she peels the leaves of one of the tamales and brings it to her mouth, which is open long before the snack reaches it. Back at the bus stop, she looks over at the group of people--which increases in size by the second--and leans her body against the bent metal sign that indicates the bus number she is waiting for. Asmania's hands are disgusting, and the girl doesn't stop watching, and Asmania wonders if she should offer her part of what she bought. Asmania is drugged and smiles a naïve grin, crooked and spotted with yellow flour, and she wonders if the girl wants ... Quickly, the girl takes out a napkin from her dark jeans and hands it to her. Here, Asmania thanks her and asks. She asks a bunch of stupid questions that the girl answers, shaken, in her monotonous sequence of "yes," "no," and, now she is elaborating explanations that Asmania is barely listening to, because she's drugged and her perception is slow. They walk a little and at the corner Asmania offers a bit of ... and here there's a short and deep silence, and then, talk, cigarettes ... but up until then, the bus hasn't arrived, and the girl says that the movie theater is close and empty, and without making any noise, she begins to move.

    Asmania--here she is called Asmania because of Pailock , and because of the public explosions of her flesh, and because she is drugged like Pailock's Asmania--feels that her fangs are getting long, and enters the movie theater. She looks for a corner where she can press up against the dark skin that is also pressing up against Asmania, as if it were a deep discomfort that is tolerated because it won't be forever. Someone lets out an intense ah, but this doesn't register, because Asmania is drugged and weak, and because of the sound of the nylon shopping bag with the bought rubbish as it slips off the seat and smashes on the floor.

    Feeling each other up hasn't been comfortable, because they both have zippers and shoes, and the narrow seats with hard wooden arms hem in their contours. On the screen, bats are screeching and blood is flying in all directions, and the actors, carrying out violent acts, exchange laughter of panic and terror. Asmania moans softly, and the one with the dark skin, as it's called here, also moans, and probably a few other people in the movie theater moan or feel each other up, seeing that two girls--one of them looks drugged--are pressing up against each other in the discomfort of the movie theater seats.

    This is a dingy neighborhood theater, and, luckily, Asmania doesn't come to these places often. Being here, now, is because the other one led her. That way, she justifies her tearing apart, her morbid imbalance, and her unexplainable loss of limits. The other one, who was spotted as the evening turned into night, is still holding one of Asmania's breasts, which pulsates, erect, under a careful caress. Asmania smiles and kisses her, with that mouth still filled with bought rubbish. The other straightens up and takes the first step, pulling Asmania by the hand, who is searching for her nylon bag between the seats. All of this is done clumsily, and the knocking against the seat, and the sound of the nylon bag, and the "Come on, come on" of the girl, get the usher's attention--an old lady, grayed by the darkness and, luckily, very slow. Asmania is in the street and everything is spinning, and she puts the things she bought in her bag, and smells her hands, and grins stupidly again, with hypnotic laughter.

    The other one has damp eyes, and the line of her jaw reminds Asmania, who is still smiling, of a story about horses; she can't associate it with anything else.

    Asmania, who has literary preferences, is indifferent to ethical issues of irreparable mediocrity, just like Pailock could be--seen by those who are unaware of the origin of things, and its inevitable occurrence in time.

Copyright © 1999 Juana Ponce de León and Esteban Ríos Rivera Rivera. All rights reserved.